Jughead Jones wondered how his death would sound by tomorrow.

Would it even make the evening news? Probably. It wasn't like Riverdale was a big town where anything remotely exciting happened. Any news was big enough news to send the bored, lonely people of Riverdale abuzz.

He wondered how his friends would take it. Jughead had to laugh out loud at that. Jughead Jones didn't have friends. He used to, if that's what you can call Archie Andrews, Riverdale's own star quarterback and beloved boy-next-door, who had hung out with him back when Jughead's dad, FP, used to work for Archie's dad, Fred, in his construction business. They were pretty tight back then – best friends, really – but maybe it was because of the fact that their fathers were old high school buddies. Jughead thought it was neat, being best friends like their fathers had been, but then FP and Fred had a huge falling out not soon after (falling out was not the term Fred Andrews would have called 'stealing from his business' but then those were just technicalities, as FP would have insisted) and Jughead and Archie's friendship came crumbling afterwards. Jughead couldn't really blame Archie being a complete ass towards him after that. He would've been, too – if he had not been from the wrong side of the tracks.

He wondered if his mother would even cry? Jughead was pretty sure she wouldn't, the memory of her leaving them behind still leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Jughead knew Gladys hated Riverdale and everyone in it – called everyone "a sorry bunch of crazies" or, if she was less inclined to be polite, simply "pompous assholes". Maybe she even believed Jughead was like the rest of them – like his father, even – or else she would've let him come to Toledo with her. She brought along his little sister, Jellybean, after all – but not him. Maybe to her, his sorry ass belonged in Riverdale.

Jughead even wondered how his father would react – although he was pretty sure he knew the answer to that. Simply put, FP just didn't give a fuck. Hell, he probably had no idea where Jughead was nowadays anyway because Jughead was sure he was at the Whyt Wyrm or at that piece-of-shit trailer he called home – passed out drunk at either places. It had been weeks since Jughead had heard from his father. Living with FP alone was no picnic (and he couldn't remember a time when it had been) and it had taken all of three months after his mother and sister high-tailed out of town for Jughead to move out from the trailer, which the Southside Serpents, the local gang that terrorized the town and that is father was proudly a member of, was now using as their new drug den. If FP used to let his "buddies" beat the shit out of him for fun, and didn't care that his underage son was squatting at the now soon-to-be-demolished Twilight Drive-In Theater, then Jughead was pretty sure FP didn't particularly care whether he was dead or not.

All Jughead was sure of was that his death sounded like a pretty good deal right about now.

He hadn't had much time to think about it, really. It wasn't like he went around thinking about ways to off himself day in and day out. Jughead wasn't that morbid – even if everyone would probably say that he looked the part, dark hair and dark clothes and all. He just woke up one morning and decided he'd had enough. Jughead didn't think it was possible to feel that way that quickly, but he had. And once he had it in his mind that he wanted to end his life – no, needed to end his life – there was nothing much to it.

Jughead had to say he had it coming. Good for nothing riffraffs like him had no business being alive.

Jughead didn't know the first thing about suicides. He neither had a car nor a garage so carbon monoxide poisoning was out of the question. He didn't own a gun (or had any idea where to get one, for that matter) and didn't actually have a place to hang himself (that dingy film room he was temporarily hiding in would probably cave at the slightest of weights). Pills were out of the budget so overdose was a no-go, and he thought slitting his wrists was just too damn slow.

He had almost given up on the idea when he stumbled upon an article written in the school's newspaper, The Blue and Gold, ten years ago about a student who had drowned in Sweetwater River. Jughead paused at that – drowning practically cost nothing and Sweetwater River was almost always devoid of people (except for wandering couples looking for undisturbed places to fuck). A dense outcrop of trees obscured a part of the river and most of the steep incline towards the rocky cliffs that lined the side of it – it seemed perfect.

Jughead didn't have much time to plan it all – that is if you could any of this planning. He didn't have much in the way of suicide notes, even though he prided himself for being quite an excellent writer. There was nothing much left for him to do or say, really – he just wanted to get over with it. He found that article on Thursday afternoon and spent most of the night thinking about it. He'd do it tomorrow, he decided, right after school when everyone was at the big football game and he had fallen asleep thinking how it would it feel to be dead.

Friday came bright and cheery – as if the world knew what Jughead was up to and agreed wholeheartedly. Jughead didn't mind. He was quite cheery too, in fact. He figured that when the end was so inevitably near, there was really nothing to be somber about. He didn't feel anxious or agitated at all – just completely at peace.

By the end of the day, Jughead was hanging out at his small cramped desk at the Blue and Gold office, practically imagining the walk up to the rocky cliffs and the smooth swift fall down the river. He was supposed to keep up his pretenses and do his job as an editor but the trivial articles turned in by their freshmen writers couldn't just keep his mind off of the icy cold water waiting for him.

"The hell I care about the declining quality of Riverdale High's toilet paper," Jughead muttered, clicking madly away in his school issued computer. It was an ancient thing and the monitor's coloring was so off it was hard to read from it. Jughead slouched in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. If he intended to die today, surely he didn't want his last hours spent on non-existent toilet paper problems. What sounded nice right about now was a cigarette and Jughead could almost taste the smoke in his tongue.

He rummaged inside his backpack for that crumpled pack he had and that was how Betty Cooper found him.

"Juggie," she said and Jughead almost groaned. Like Archie Andrews, he used to hang out with Betty Cooper when he was a lot younger but calling them friends was a long shot. She was like Archie in every way – the girl-next door in all her blonde perfection: a River Vixen, student body president, and the school paper's editor-in-chief. Betty Cooper was a grade-A overachiever. A perfect match to Archie's golden boy charm – and Betty Cooper knew that, even at the tender age of five. Ever since Jughead and Archie had been friends, he could remember little Betty Cooper in the background, following them around and trying to be part of all their games. Jughead didn't mind though, Betty always gave them awesome cookies. And when Archie went away, he figured Betty didn't want anything to do with him, too. Sucks, though. He did love those cookies even though he'd never admit it to her.

Betty Cooper always called Jughead "Juggie" as if they were still in the playground playing tag. It made his ears burn in embarrassment. 'At least she didn't call me Forsythe anymore,' he thought with a shudder, remembering the time when Little-Miss-Perfectionist insisted on calling her that because it was his proper first name.

"You know you can't smoke in here!" she said, finely shaped eyebrows shooting up. She crossed her arms over her pastel pink sweater and gave him a pointed look. She wasn't all that bad, Jughead figured. Sure Betty was a little annoying but at least she wasn't mean to him like the rest of the students of Riverdale High. They worked together in the Blue and Gold and she was probably the only student here that maintained a sense of civility towards him.

"I know, I know. Wasn't going to, " Jughead said with a sigh. He slipped one stick behind his ears and Betty scrunched her nose. "Ugh, smoking is disgusting!" she said. "And one of the leading causes of death. You don't want to die early, do you?"

Jughead stiffened at that. Oh if Betty Cooper only knew.

"You okay, Jones?" She was watching him closely, a curious look in her wide blue eyes.

"Yeah, yeah," Jughead replied, "just – you know – eager to get home." He almost cringed at his lie. Almost.

"Going to the game?" Betty piped and Jughead just gave a snort. He was never in any of the games and Betty knew that. Jughead glanced up to give her an incredulous look and noticed that Betty was not in her River Vixen uniform. Instead she was in her usual pink sweater and black skater skirt.

"What – you aren't going to go cheer for Archiekins?" Jughead nodded his head and motioned to her clothes. He felt a slight satisfaction as she flushed and glared at him. 'That's for the cigarette comment, Betts!' Jughead thought smugly.

"No!" Betty replied a little too heatedly. She took a deep steadying breath and gave Jughead a smile so bright he almost recoiled in his seat.

"I – I don't like that look," he said slowly. Betty sat down in front of his desk and gave him what he could only call a puppy dog look. Her blue eyes were wide and pleading and her pink lips slightly turned down into a pout.

"I was thinking," Betty started, "that maybe you can help me with this homecoming article I've been meaning to write. Tonight."

"And you pick tonight of all nights to actually do this?" Jughead said. Internally, Jughead was cursing like a sailor. He had a wonderful date with death tonight all planned out.

"Well, yeah," Betty said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm heading the homecoming dance preparations, remember? I need to get this out of the way as soon as possible!"

"Just get Martin to do it!" Jughead said, hands inching towards his cigarette stick. Betty gave him a pointed look. Martin was the freshman writer who did the piece on the toilet paper – okay, maybe he wasn't the best choice for the job.

"Look, Betty –,"

"Please, Juggie! You're our best writer here!" Betty pleaded and Jughead chuckled bitterly. "Flattery won't get you anywhere, Cooper," he admonished, shaking his head.

"Look, I just think that it would be a lot more meaningful if seniors wrote this article. Like some nostalgic project or something before we go," Betty reasoned. Jughead felt his skin prickle at that. Before we go. Jughead eyed Betty, leveling his green gaze with her blue probing eyes. He wondered if there was any possibility that she knew what he was planning – if she knew about Sweetwater River. But Betty's pleading gaze was just that – a look that urged him to help her out, just like the ones she used to wear when they were kids and she asked to join in on their games.

Jughead sighed and looked out the window. The sun was far from setting but it gave of a nice sweet afternoon glow. He could maybe stay alive just another day, right? It wasn't like he was going to delay his plans forever. Nothing has changed, anyway. Sweetwater River was going to be there tomorrow, still empty, still cold, still deadly if it wanted to be.

"What the hell," he said with a sigh, finally relenting, "buy me a burger at Pop's!"


A/N: Back with a second one! Writing for Bughead is really getting addicting! So this idea came to me after reading Jasmine Warga's "My Heart and Other Black Holes", which happens to be one of my favorite YA books. I pondered on patterning the story after the book but thought better of it. I believe suicide and depression are topics best handled by experts and I don't want to botch it attempting to convert it into a Bughead story (not that depression and suicide stories are bad - I enjoy reading them, after all). That being said, I am kind of worried about this story because I'm so afraid I won't do the topic justice or may portray depression and other mental health issues in the wrong light, which is not my intention, of course. I am no stranger to depression and anxiety so most of Jughead's thoughts were based on thoughts I used to have to be as authentic as I can be. However, rest assured that I am still putting a lot of effort on research.

On a lighter note, I had such a hard time writing FP as a bad father! FP is my next favorite Riverdale character - after Jughead, of course! And this story's Betty is slightly based on Harry Potter's Hermione Granger - who, now that I think of it, is not all too different from Betty - and Jughead and Betty's dynamics and antics were based very loosely on how Hermione and Ron interacted in the books (even if I am a die-hard Harry/Hermione shipper). All in all, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! This is mostly going to be about fluff (or smut, if I can squeeze it in) and hope - so breathe, sit back, and revel at the Bughead cheesiness I'm about to cook up. I'm not really good at multi-chapter stories but just have faith! :)

Okay, I'm going to stop talking now - and I promise not to be this mouthy on the next author's note. Haha!

This goes out to you who feel lonely, sad, abandoned, and totally giving up on life - this is a story of finding hope. I know you will find it, too.

Cheers!